This Time
by ShinyThingsGirl
Summary: Sylar meets Future Peter during a nighttime stroll and his encounter changes a lot of things which Sylar thought he knew. Takes place during season three. Sylar/Peter


The business card which the blonde, speedy girl gave him was like a stone in his pocket. Sylar jogged up a flight of stairs and the rectangular piece of cardboard seemed to be weighing him down. The girl had been as grating as her haircut and, under normal circumstances, he would have had her up against the wall with a flayed skull in seconds. These were obviously not normal circumstances so he had simply stood there thunderstruck, looking from the card to the blonde and trying to make sense of what she told him. Someone else was interested in his talents. Except this particular individual wanted Sylar to remain a killer and even dared to suggest that this was what they both wanted. It unconditionally peaked Sylar's interest.

There were answers he still needed however and with Angela —his real mother— out of commission, there was only one other source he could think to go to. Luckily, he was in the same building.

The security at Primatech subsisted of pathetically simple system. If anything, Sylar's single hindrance was that they always seemed to take his socks, making his feet cold and numb and the concrete floors certainly weren't helping.

Sylar skipped down the last two steps in the stairwell and opened the heavy steel door with a fading, yellow floor marker painted on it. Murky lights lined the long hallway giving it a jaundiced appearance. Each room he peeked into while sprinting down the concrete corridor was either empty or contained strange laboratory type equipment and he was rapidly coming up to the few remaining doors. This was the last floor Sylar could think to check. After this he would have to start inquiring and that could get messy.

To his relief, he saw the empath lying on a bed-like slab in a room with a 'White Level Clearance only' sign above a keypad. Sylar's hand automatically went for the handle anyway. Curiously, there was a loud hiss once he touched the cool metal and when he pushed down, the door swung open.

Peter was strapped down and faintly mumbling. The inhalant which he had running through his nostrils was a concoction of nitrazepam and some other mild sedatives. It wasn't pleasant; this Sylar knew from experience. Drawing near his immobilized body, Sylar could see his eyes rolling aimlessly under their half-closed lids. Almost angrily, he ripped the shunt out of Peter's nose.

"Peter. Peter you need to come with me," Sylar urged even though he was relatively sure Peter wouldn't know what was happening for another few seconds. There was virtually no chance of this going well but maybe he could distract Peter with sheer persistence. He reached down for the first set of straps and unfastened them..

"Peter!" Slightly more desperate, Sylar placed his palms on Peter's chest and shook him impatiently. There was a little response and Sylar undid the second set of straps. If someone were to arrive before he could get Peter to wake up, it wouldn't bode well for either of them.

"What're you doing?" Peter slurred.

"I need your help," he told him straightforwardly, looking down into his face. Peter appeared to be consciousness but Sylar knew he was still completely unaware of who was un-strapping him.

All at once, that recognition sunk in and Peter's eyes flew open. He bolted off the bed and put it between Sylar and himself. Sylar had a second to consider how kind and understanding Peter looked before revulsion shaped his features. Peter's brother, his real brother, doubtlessly knew that other Peter. But not Sylar and a small, quiet part of him hated knowing that,

"Get away from me!" Peter barked. Electricity sizzled just under the surface of the skin on his palms.

"No, no, no!" Sylar called out, rounding the bed, hoping to convince him through sheer insistence. He stopped when he realized approaching him was doing more harm than good. Keeping his place near the end of the bed, Sylar spread out his own deactivate hands, indicating a truce.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said slowly, not wanting Peter to hear the shake in his voice, the naked urgency with which he wanted Peter on his side.

"You already did," Peter said heatedly. "You gave me this hunger. You made me a monster. Now I can't control it. I'm just like you." His expression changed while he spoke, as if for the first time he allowed himself to think that Sylar might not be a killer by absolute choice.

"I don't want to be that anymore. I want to be different." Sylar said. Divulging this compliance to change, to imply a weakness was difficult for him and he couldn't continue making eye contact. "I think – I think I can control it. And if I can then so can you," he finished.

There was a drawn out silence between them. Peter was studying him. Sylar could see it out of the corner of his eye.

"When I saw you in the future . . . you changed." Peter started slowly. "You found a way to suppress it. How?"

The question nearly prompted Sylar to tell him everything. Except that Sylar wasn't sure how much of what he knew was true. And certainly if it was, then this Peter could not be made aware of it. Sylar quickly looked away again, dark eyes searching the grey cell for somewhere else to focus.

"I don't know." He told him. "But just knowing that I figure it out, just believing that it's a possibility gives me hope."

"I don't want hope!" Peter spat out. "I want it gone!" His tone has taken on that harshness again.

"This is not about you and me." Sylar resolved to tell him. It was the only way he knew Peter would actually listen to what he needed him to do.

"I woke you because your mother is in trouble." He said, the words bringing him back to the night he ran into Peter.

"Our mother."

**o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o**

_A week earlier . . . _

Despite the cheery warmth of the early spring day, the night came on sunken and cold. Not that Sylar would know anything about what the day was like. The last two of them he spent mulling around in his cell on Level 5, debating the choices which had him lead up to this point; a kind of thinking he had been doing quite often lately. Being trapped in the cell tended to generate that type of meditation and it was something which had become conflated with a myriad of emotions.

Evidently, when he agreed to help this so called company, it didn't guarantee him any freedom. Of course that wasn't a revelation in the least. So it was a pleasant surprise when Angela came down and let him out.

"Stretch your legs," she told him confidingly. She gave no further instructions and Sylar hadn't asked her any questions. You don't look the gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes. He stood up, took the change of clothes she held out for him and left. Whatever business the company conducted didn't interest him in the slightest as long it gave him access to individuals with evolved DNA. Maybe Angela ran it now or maybe she always had a hand in running things, he wasn't told. She obviously possessed some type of ornate authority or else he wouldn't be here walking the back streets of New York.

Sylar further turned up the collar of the ill-chosen khaki jacket she had given him and wondered for the thousandth time about his change of progenitor. Discovering who his mother really was posed so many new and interesting questions and he had been awaiting these answers for a long time.

Yet he found that he was no longer all that eager to ask. Which in all likelihood meant it accessed some emotional knowledge that he didn't want to deal with. Closing off the side of him that cared about who he was, about who he had become, was difficult enough the first time around. He did not want to deal with that again and wasn't sure if he could handle a mother who was proud of him. Didn't want to think about whether he even cared.

At any rate, something which was both terrifying and beautiful compromised his decisions now and he was content leaving it at that. No fair reason really to worry about morals or a mother's approval when a ravenous hunger pulled at his very core. A hunger which could only be likened to a drug addiction; euphoric when satisfied and hellish when it wasn't.

Nonetheless, in his heart, deep down in a 'no entry' room where he stored these unavailing thoughts, Sylar wondered. The night he came home to his then mother after discovering his own personal version of , he had been looking for some type of acceptance. Would he have changed if she gave it to him? Sylar could never be sure and that uncertainty made him put the thought away where he wouldn't have to consider it.

A car honked somewhere in the distance and Sylar was pulled out of his reverie, realizing he was lost. He should have been paying attention instead of getting absorbed in thoughts of his mommy. Cursing silently he slid his chilly hands into his pockets and crossed the street, moving away from the busier roads up ahead. He hit upon a more suburban area where the houses stood austere and dark. Sylar hated suburbia. Similar houses, similar streets and similar playgrounds fixed together like compounds. There was something almost ant-like about it and its unimportant conventionality irritated him.

Something else was nagging at him too. Angela Petrelli let him out all right, but he knew there'd be a price to pay. He was almost certain he caught a little smile lurking around the corners of her mouth when he walked by her and out of the cell. She was up to something and a peculiar intuition told him she expected he would figure it out during his little jaunt. Sylar searched the empty street very nearly believing— and slightly hoping— he was going to figure out what it was right at that moment. But there was nothing and no sound save for a small dog yelping in a far off backyard. Everyone on, Sylar checked, Luchman Terrace went to bed early apparently.

Then he heard it. A displacement of air, like something had just popped into a solid existence. He knew that sound well. The last time it entered his sensitive ears, a sword had also entered his chest. Sylar spun around expecting to see that little ferret-faced Asian kid. Instead he saw someone much more unexpected and probably the exact reason he was supposed to be 'stretching his legs' tonight.

"Peter, Peter. Pumpkin eater," Sylar said, his voice traveling loudly in the peaceful neighbourhood air.

The unguarded surprise on Peter's face was satisfying but brief. Peter craned his neck and thoughtfully surveying, first him, then the houses on their side of the street.

"What are you doing here?"

Petrelli's tone had a hard edge to it that Sylar didn't like. It was new and it sounded dangerous and come to think of it, Sylar couldn't remember there being a scar across the empath's face before.

"Out for a little night-time stroll. Same as you I'd imagine," he replied pleasant as pie just the same. The last thing he wanted to do was let Peter suspect that he was making him nervous.

Peter's attention diverted back to him. "Last time I saw you, they had you caged up in Level 5."

He was looking at Sylar as no more than a slight inconvenience in his evening plans and for the first time Sylar wondered if he was standing in front of the real Peter Petrelli. There were very good odds that not just one person possessed the capability to change shape.

"I suppose with gone, the Company is going through a shift in management," Sylar said, approaching slowly. "And due to new circumstances, they require my services." It didn't matter who this really was because it was someone with an ability. An ability he was convinced Angela intended for him to have.

"Did she tell you we're . . . brothers yet?"

Sylar had moved in almost intimately close –Peter didn't appear distressed by this— and was in the middle of raising his arm for his standard forehead cut when Peter's words registered. He lowered the arm but kept his place. His heart had begun clattering in his chest. Ignoring it, he forcefully subdued all the new questions whirling in his mind. Certainly it explained how Peter fit in to the larger picture. But this was not the time or place to be thinking about it.

"Well then, _our_ mother sent me out here for a reason. I wonder what it could be?" Sylar asked tapping his lip with a finger and looking at him thoughtfully, glad that he was able to recover smoothly. Besides avoiding acting nervous, Sylar now had to deal with concealing how much the idea that they were brothers elated him.

Springing forward suddenly, Peter grabbed him by the collar. Sylar immediately shoved back in Peter's grip. His disposition for superhuman strength made Peter's constraint almost a joke. And for some reason, in that instant, all of it came together; Peter's scar, his defiant stance, and that 'loss of faith in humanity' attitude.

"Does she abandon you in favour of me? Is what happens in the future Peter? Do I become the favourite son?" Sylar continued with a brazen grin. Unexpectedly, Peter faltered and for a second Sylar saw that heart-breaking innocence which he was used to seeing in his demeanour.

He was still holding onto Sylar's coat and almost gently he let go. That, Sylar was not expecting and he had to take a clumsy step forward to compensate for balance. Peter took a deep, calming breath as he glanced around again

"Follow me," Peter finally said and turned towards the house to his left.

Thrown off by such a direct command, Sylar went after him almost mechanically. When Sylar's choices came down to satisfying that hungry urge or figuring out an intriguing puzzle, his watch-maker personality always won. And Peter was certainly more appealing as a puzzle then as a victim; this was always the case and probably what saved his life so many times. Sylar jogged up the porch steps after him. Peter was standing in the shadow of the veranda and facing the door. He turned when Sylar stopped behind him.

"Take my arm."

Sylar thought he misheard but Peter was holding out an arm towards him. When he wavered, Peter yanked him close and flung both of them through the door. There was a light brown blur in front of Sylar's eyes and then they were inside the house. A small surprised sound scattered out of his mouth. He looked at the perfectly composed oak door they just came through and then back at Peter.

"Yeah, that one definitely comes in handy." Peter said, referring to the fact that they just melded through a solid door with a bit of taunting arrogance that struck Sylar as being far too friendly. He carefully studied Peter's eyes. _Tick, tick, tick_. What gears were turning behind them?

"Do you know me Peter?"

"What do you mea-"

"You know exactly what I mean." Sylar cut him off sharply. "In the future. Do you know me?

Peter gave no response and only looked at him. Then his mouth pulled up into a smirk and he turned away. Bewildered, Sylar watched him go. What the hell was going on here?

"Come on, there's something you need to see." Peter said and trotted down what could have only been the basement steps. With curiosity once again winning, Sylar once again followed. The narrow staircase opened at the bottom into a very spacious room considering it was in the basement of a relatively small home. Puffy, russet couches stood in the center with a faux fireplace in a corner and when Sylar looked down, he saw he was standing practically ankle deep in chocolate-coloured carpet. The wide and solid black bar taking up nearly half of the space was unquestionably the centerpiece. Peter was leaning against its shiny counter.

"What are you doing?" Sylar asked, quickly moving from curiosity to apprehension. There was nothing else of significance in the room and Sylar wouldn't believe that Peter had meant that he needed to see a bar. Peter sat down on one of the cushy stools and patted the seat next to him. So he meant the bar after all.

Usually Sylar backed out of situations in which he was totally confused. It was a good rule of thumb for surviving. But there was something about Peter that made him want to trust him. Besides, Sylar was sure that he was the stronger one out of the two of them and this future Peter would offer a much more interesting fight than his younger counterpart.

"These people friends of yours?" Sylar asked finally walking towards the bar. He watched as Peter reach underneath the countertop to pull out two shot glasses. He set one of them in front of him.

"They're not home right now," was Peter's answer to the question. Presumably he had been here before as he, again casually, got a hold of an almost full bottle of liquor hidden in another small compartment of the bar.

"We're going to play a game." Peter unscrewed the cap and poured them both a shot of amber liquid. "It's called The Drunken Liar."

He said this with an air of juvenile arrogance but that playful smirk was back on his face. It made Sylar feel like he had fallen into some kind of bizarre universe where spending some recreational time with Peter Parelli was a regular Friday night. Not that it already didn't feel like a bizarre universe with them all having abilities. Just that this seemed much more unlikely. When he made no move to sit or accept, Peter elaborated further on the principals of the game as if this was supposed to entice him.

"Okay, you ask a question, I answer. If you believe me, you drink to honesty. Not answering a question is punishable by a drink. Sound good?"

"Sounds like you just made it up," Sylar answered, eyeing the alcohol deprecatingly despite the fact that he had full intentions of playing because why not.

"It's a drinking game, what do you want? Then again I could be lying to get you inebriated and catch you off guard." There was that taunting again. Peter's behaviour was really making him hard to read even for someone with his capabilities and Sylar suspected that was exactly what Peter wanted.

"How will we know if it is the truth?" Sylar asked suspiciously. The game was completely infantile but he was interested nonetheless and it certainly beat aimlessly wandering around the city.

Peter just shrugged his shoulders. "Look, I came here to get drunk. I don't know what you were doing here. So now we either have to kill each other or you're going to join me in getting shit-faced."

Sylar considered this. This could easily be a cleverly orchestrated trap. Or Peter was telling the truth and the idea that he would invite Sylar to join him was just as unsettling. But ever the opportunist and still very much intrigued, Sylar took off his jacked and sank down on the cushy stool next to him.

"So . . . how did you get that scar on your face?" Sylar asked him promptly.

Peter answered as if expecting that would be the first question. "My ability changed."

Sylar snorted. "That's it? That's your 'honesty'? I am not drinkin—"

"Someone took my power away. I got it back by injecting some genetic mutation cocktail they gave me. Unfortunately it only restored my empathy ability. So I lost the power to heal. Drink up."

Sylar obliged him. As soon as he emptied the glass Peter asked his question. "When did you start working for Primatech?"

"Two days ago. What time are you from exactly?" Sylar watched Peter's throat work as he swallowed the drink.

"Four years from now." He poured them both another round. "How much did she tell you?"

Sylar paused. The truth of it was that Angela hadn't told him much beyond revealing that she was his biological mother and that he'd be instrumental to ambiguous events in the future. When he thought about why he was willingly following her orders, there was sharp tug in his chest. He felt something trying to escape that 'no entry' room and an unabated anger surfaced automatically as he closed that part off.

"Drink twice," Peter said to him, sliding his own full shot glass over to Sylar.

"What?" Sylar hadn't heard him, he was striving for control. Agitation made restraining that hungry part of him a lot harder. Something he was sure Bruce Banner knew about all too well.

"Drink twice. Once for my answer and another for not giving me one," Peter repeated and pointed at the two shots in front of Sylar. "It shouldn't be that hard to remember two simple rules." He teased, unaware of the change in Sylar's disposition or trying to ignore it. And there was oddly something to that. Something about Peter's good-natured ribbing seemed to cut through all that red haze in his head and startlingly pushed it back. Not for the last time he wondered about how much this Peter knew about him. He took the shots and tried not to think.


End file.
